


our hearts beat in static time

by ThisUsernameTaken



Series: coffee stains & chance encounters [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: ;;;; ??, Alternate Universe - College/University, Banter, Coffee, Flirting, Fluff, Future Fic, Gen, Laundry, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Roommates, Swearing, abuse of italics probably, more of an oh hey so they're actually kind of pretty sorta thing, you know?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 12:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisUsernameTaken/pseuds/ThisUsernameTaken
Summary: “Oikawa, I know you’ve got to to do it on your own now,” and he does, really, one month back before they alternate every two weeks, “but are you sure you don’t need me to show you the controls--”His voice is serious, half teasing. Suga still remembers theflamesthat had enveloped the sink, holyshit. How Oikawa had managed that, he’ll never know.--Laundry, coffee, and an awkward (maybe, not really) crush. They've got a lot to figure out.





	our hearts beat in static time

**Author's Note:**

> Reading of the first work is not necessary, per se, but as a whole would make more sense.

They’re a month into first semester, swamped in papers and projects and everything else in between. Including, apparently, laundry.

 

“Suga-chaaan!” Tooru yells from where he’s sprawled across his desk, glasses off-kilter, because of course that could not do. No reply.

He tries again. “SUGA-CHAN!” And was that a pencil to the side of his head, because “I’m three feet away, Oikawa, what the hell.” He was, really, his roommate in equal state save the fact he was on his bed, groaning unintelligible things into his pillow.

Tooru props himself up on an elbow, picks his papers into some semblance of organization, picks a sock off the desk. It’s only natural he throws it into Suga’s face, after all. The other boy sits up in an indignant squawk, batting it away. “Ugh, gross, Oikawa!”

He does his best to look innocent, hiding a smile behind his hand. “Oh, but it _is_ laundry day, don’t you know?”

 

Suga opens his mouth, closes it. Turns away with a mutter. “Stupid _coffee_ and charming smile and conscience and _why did we draw up a chart, oh my god_.”

 

He draws himself up, however reluctantly, dangling his legs off the bed. Distractingly short shorts ride up his thighs, revealing long lines of smooth milky skin, shirt rucked at the waist. Tooru buries his face in his arms and tries not to stare.

For good measure, Suga plucks the errant sock and throws it back. It catches over the rim of Oikawa’s glasses. Ha. Retaliation. “Alright, you big baby. I’m not one to go back on my word anyway,” as he pushes himself off the mattress, kicks discarded clothing into a pile. “But _you’re_ sorting out your clothes.”

Tooru pouts, chucks the sock into the pile. They were doing that a lot today. “You’re not cute at all.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” is the only hum he gets in return, and that was so _bad_ and he’s doing that thing where he’s singing under his breath with a swing of his hips, laundry basket already out and oh god, that’s so cute, what the hell.

“Ha! You wish. The great Oikawa-san doesn’t take just anyone to bed.” And what’s he still doing in his desk chair, anyway? Several minutes later and its banters worth to boot (“Hinata wasn’t lying about that royalty complex, huh.” “Rude! We both know Chibi-chan would never _lie._ ”), Suga’s out the door, Tooru behind him as it clicks shut, lock sliding into place.

They meet stride down the hall, Suga looking up, raising a brow. “’You. Laundry duty. Two months,’” he quotes verbatim, tips his head to the basket. But what he really means is, _Why are you here?_ Tooru sniffs. ”Can’t a man want a little company?”

 

Suga laughs, as if he’s read between the lines. “Not if that man’s going to pester me over the goddamn laundry detergent, no,” and they’re off again, easy bickering as if they’ve done the same for years. And maybe they could. Maybe they could.

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing.” Voice flat, eyebrows drawn. Sugawara Koushi may look stern, but the ever chaotic glint in his eyes gives him away. So Tooru stays where he is atop the washing machine, kicks his legs into air, over the glass doors.

 

Leaning back, arms out behind him, he slants his best smirk, positively leering at the shorter man as he says, “You tell me.” A surprised laugh, a swat to his knee. (“You’re a horrible flirt, you know that?” “Mean, Iwa-chan!”)

 

“Scoot, you big oaf. You’re blocking the door,” and his smile’s still drawn at the edges and was that pink spreading over the bridge of his nose and oh, Tooru’s swung his legs up altogether, has gone very, very still.

 

It’s silent as Suga puts in their loads, pours the detergent, only the hum of the other machines to settle like static between their ears. Tooru draws his legs to his chest, observes Suga over his kneecaps. He looks incredibly focused for someone selecting cold water.

 

“Stop it.”

 

Tooru blinks. “Stop what?” His roommate huffs. “That. The thing where you look at someone and see into their goddamn soul.”

 

“I don’t know, Suga-chan,” Tooru lilts, voice teasing. “You say that like it’s there.”

 

And then they’re laughing, dryer lint in Tooru’s hair because “oh, it’s _on_ ,” and Suga’s climbed up onto the machine opposite, and they just sit there, legs swinging, eyes locked in a staredown that only has them breaking into fits of nonsensical giggles.

 

Because there’s dryer lint sprinkled in Tooru’s hair and through the soft of Suga’s silver, pointed at unnatural angles from where Tooru’s got him by the head and _ruffled_ , melting at the edges, lighting him ethereal.

 

And they’re laughing, three feet apart, any chance for awkwardness sucked out the room by the sheer presence of _themselves_ , burning bright and golden and a bit incredulous, really, because what the hell. It’s _laundry_.

 

What could they say? They got on like a house on fire, dryer lint and all. And maybe, just maybe, that was the best part.

 

(Tooru’s never been so glad for coffee in his _life_.)

 

* * *

 

That was a lie.

 

That was a dirty no good _lie_ and Suga could drown in the damn thing, for all he cared. A mug slips into view from where half his face is smushed into his desk.

 

“Oikawa?” It’s soft, and sweet, tinged in exhaustion, edged with concern. And oh, oh, those eyes come level to his own, blink like ink spilling over alabaster. “Oikawa, I know you have that paper due tomorrow, but you could ask for an extension--” Tooru finds the energy to shake his head.

 

A smile. “Ah. Of course you wouldn’t.” He looks away, profile lit in blue from the light of his laptop. “Iwaizumi-kun warned me about this, you know.” _Warned me about you_. “He’ll be visiting tomorrow, since you’ve only talked about it _all week_.” Fingers encircle his nose; pinch, teasing.  
  
“So chin up, okay?” He stands up from where he’d been kneeling beside Tooru’s desk, punches his shoulder gently. “I got you coffee.”

 

Muted footfalls, a rustling of blankets. By the time Tooru’s blinked himself into coherence, something like _thank you_ on the edge of his lips-- he turns his head, and Suga’s already asleep.

 

He sighs; sets a hand over the keyboard, poised as if to launch an orchestra into thunderous debut. Brings the mug to his lips, smiling.

 

It’s warm.

 

* * *

 

“Oikawa, I know you’ve got to to do it on your own now,” and he does, really, one month back before they alternate every two weeks, “but are you sure you don’t need me to show you the controls--”

 

His voice is serious, half teasing. Suga still remembers the _flames_ that had enveloped the sink, holy _shit_. How Oikawa had managed that, he’ll never know.

The taller’s bent forward, squinting at their supply of detergent Suga’s laid out over a machine. He wears contacts, now. “Mm… Tell me which one removes the sweat-stains again, and we’re good.” He’d be telling him a lot more than _that_ , Suga wagered, but he walks forward, presses them shoulder to shoulder as he reaches for the bottle, explains its function and how to use it.

 

_“Suga-chaaan!” There’s the sound of a door closing. The boy in question pokes his head out around the closet door with a frown._

 

_“What is it, Oikawa?”_

 

_He flounces in, jacket of their university’s volleyball team slung loosely over his shoulders. There’s a jersey in his hands. “Suga-chan,” Oikawa whines. He holds out the jersey, limp and foul smelling. What the hell?_

 

_He must have said that out loud, judging by the scrunch of his nose. Suga wants to reach out and tap it._

 

_“Now that’s no way to welcome a roommate home, you know?” He surveys the space; clearly lived in, judging by the clutter. “Much as a home this place can be.”_

 

_But Suga’s already turned back to the closet, pushing aside hangers, reaching in the back. “Oh, and presenting me your gross post-game jersey is? Congratulations, by the way.” He pauses, tosses a shirt out behind him. “Your serves are killer as ever.”_

 

_At the sudden silence, Suga leans back out again. “You alright?” The words fall out, by some miracle, throat closing as he looks up, registers the fan of breath over his cheeks._

 

_When had he gotten this close?_

 

 _“Hey, Suga-chan,” he pouts, close enough for him to see_ the individual strands of hair falling over his eyes, _holy_ shit. _And then there’s the goddamn jersey in his face, stench like salt and victory and_ sweat. _Suga has half a mind to fling it out the window. “Teach me how to wash this?”_

 

“You know how to wash your own _jersey_ , Oikawa. Didn’t you do it in high school?” They’ve fallen into familiar tableau, Suga at the machine, Oikawa over the washer just beside. He hums. “‘Course I know how. Iwa-chan would usually end up doing both our clothes anyhow, so I never really bothered.” A frown. “That’s probably why I can never get the stains out.”

 

Suga holds the jersey out and away from him, other hand fumbling for the remover. He makes a face. “Yeah, I can tell.” And here he squawks, because “ _I do not_ sweat _, Suga-chan, I_ glow,"and “yeah, yeah, go get some lovestruck girl to do this for you then, eh?” Suga swings the door shut with a decisive click, swats Oikawa’s hands away from the buttons. For some reason, the thought bothers him.

Oikawa’s brought people home before, sometimes no more warning than a single text of lewd emojis, Suga averting his eyes to knock on Daichi’s door, just down the hall. And wasn’t that a blessing?

 

 _“You know, this is almost like our sleepovers,” his best friend would hum, his roommate out at a party, the two of them tucked into each other, backs against the wall, watching shitty movies on Daichi’s laptop. Suga snorts, sighs. “Subtract strategizing, factor in_ Oikawa Tooru, _and you’re set.” He laughs._

 

_They fall asleep like that, blanket creased up to their ears, screen flashing mosaics of color over their faces, across the wall, volume clicked low._

 

The other boy makes a low sound in his throat, coughs. He finds the air conditioning fascinating, actually, thank you. “‘S not just the girls I’ve got falling for me, you know.”

 

 _It’s not just girls I’m falling for_.  

 

Suga’s hopped up onto the machine next to him, sweeping their detergent into his bag, setting his laptop out. He looks up, pushes a box of pilfered dryer sheets into Tooru’s hands. (“ _For the static, you know?” “How do you have the money for this in_ college _?”)_

 

“Here,” he smiles. “You do the drying.” He knocks their knees together, gently. The outline of Tooru’s brace edges sharply through his sweatpants.

 

“While we wait, get your laptop out? Group project.” A year before Tooru would be more than a pinch server. A semester into their degrees, into medicine. Suga sets a thermos between them, the instant coffee sort stocked in their kitchen that tastes half a step away from ash.

 

“And yeah,” he says, when their loads chime clean and they shuffle off to the dryers. “The walls are matchbox thin.” Suga goes up on his tiptoes, knocks a fist against Tooru’s head, the soft of his hair. “Stop bringing home the loud ones, yeah?”

 

Tooru stands open mouthed, colors up to the ears, jerking into motion to fish out his athletic clothing, throw them back in, dryer sheet and all. He was twenty, for god’s sake. Not _fifteen_.

 

 _I’ll not bring home anyone, if it means coming home to you_. And he stills, hands braced over the dryer, face contorting in disbelief, because that was so _sappy_ and he was having _no_ feelings on that subject _whatsoever, thank you very much._ Suga sings soft and tuneless, mere feet away. Oh, god.

 

Later, back up on home base, legs swinging and the tip-tap of fingers over keyboards, Tooru reaches for the thermos, swallows the bitter taste in desperate attempt to conjure up resentment from their final match, find anything to wash away the voice that sounds so much like Makki in a mocking crow of _indirect kiss_!

 

“Hey, Suga-chan,” he says suddenly, mouth running of its own volition, and oh god, what is he saying, what is he _doing_ , uncapped thermos dipping dangerously close to Suga’s shorts. “Hey, Suga-chan. How easily does coffee stain?”

 

A blink, a splutter, a shriek. Coffee, as Tooru discovers, stains _everything_.

 

Tooru was stupid, sure, but not _that_ stupid. Their laptops made it out fine. Only so much could be said for their clothes, however, a limping race to the bathroom to stave off the burns, Suga’s pain induced ranting of “what the fuck, I am never making coffee for you _again_.”

 

Against all odds, it ends with them laughing, their positions switched. It made for an interesting scene; Suga perched atop a washing machine, the two dressed in fresh dried clothes, cackling as Tooru struggled with the dials, threw their ruined clothing in with a slam.

 

“Hey,” Suga laughs, because he waited it out with him, evidence of Tooru being a terrible person and himself anything but. “Hey,” Suga laughs, and throws a box at his fucking face. “Don’t forget the static.”

**Author's Note:**

> er-- how's the characterization?


End file.
